


We drank from the mouth of hell

by hauntedpoem



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (but fails?), Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder (kind of), Empathy, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Incest, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, PTSD, Ramsay is damaged, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Abuse, Theon wants to save him, and his own warning, dysfunctionality galore, not a happy family, promiscuous/ arrogant Theon, they fuck you up your mum and dad, this fic is TEMPORARILY ON-HOLD!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon is a sailor who sometimes repairs boats and Ramsay, Bolton’s bastard, is a butcher. Theon likes the sea breeze and Ramsay likes knives. Theon likes summer and Ramsay likes the freezers. All that they know is that dysfunctional is a term that applies to both their families and that once touched by evil, you can never be the same. There’s a method to their madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer- Look, I own nothing!  
> It has Ramsay in it so... This is… as safe as it gets, right? Also, there is little sanity in their relationship as they are both too fucked up to do normal.  
> Also, this has been on my mind for a while so now I have to drag my sorry ass and finish what I've started.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon picks the shortest straw, again.

He swears that another weekend with the Starks is going to drive him insane. Like today, when they decided all of a sudden they should have a barbeque to celebrate their marriage anniversary.

Theon, as usual, has picked the shortest straw and has to buy the meat. That’s the task that nobody likes, along with washing the dishes. Sansa, again, had to be in charge of the decorations and dear Robb is in charge of the dogs. Jon orders the rest from the online shop. Arya, Bran and Rickon claim to be too busy doing homework so they don’t contribute at all. Robb jokes that their presence is enough. Ned and Cat get to spend the evening alone at the lake house. How typical of them, if you ask Theon.

  
He hates the Dreadfort. Dreary little town. It always gave him the creeps. It’s full of strange people and he’s always on edge whenever they get too close to him. Not only is the man who owns the chain of shops a complete weirdo himself… but his son is the champion of weirdness. Every year, it’s Theon’s task to go to the butcher’s and almost every time he has to interact with Bolton’s son.

  
“If you don’t behave, I’ll invite the butcher to your dinner party,” he threatens as he ignites the car and pulls out of the garage. He swears that behind his back Arya showed him the finger.

  
“Bitch.” He whispers to himself. It’s not as if he doesn’t have his own problems to deal with. He’s grateful to the Starks for taking him in, but really… apart from that, he’s always been singled out as that Greyjoy kid whom everyone hates.  
High-school days have been full of drama, mostly because they’ve all heard how fucked up his family was. The Greyjoys are no good - they used to whisper behind his back.

  
Balon Greyjoy and domestic violence went hand in hand. His older brothers were always going in and out of jail and his older sister… was rumored to be the head of the local mafia. That’s weird shit, man. But nothing equaled the problems he’s had with his mother, who, given the chance, would gladly take her own life. Theon went through her suicidal fits all his childhood and by 9 he was practically an adult because he had to pull his shit together around all the dysfunctional people in his family. And his uncles… let’s not go there. He still has nightmares of uncle Euron and his missing eye.

  
He’d long lost shame and embarrassment and wherever he went, people were bound to talk. They were disgusting little twats who did nothing but stare like dogs and talk behind his back.

  
So today he had to drive to Dreadfort which had the best meat in the area. This was his third year since he left the Stark’s house and managed on his own, not that they didn’t help him. Repairing boats and yachts was a decent paying job and Theon had everything he needed, except a family, because the Greyjoys weren’t exactly good with kids and didn’t know how to say I love you between the bouts of alcoholism and the suicide threats.

  
The Starks… the Starks were already a family, a growing one when Theon first came to them. Six children… well… minus the bastard who belonged to Ned alone, were enough in Theon’s opinion. It never bothered him that they didn’t sign the adoption papers. He knew all along that he was just a ward, just some kid they took pity on. If he proved to be too difficult, he would have been put into the adoption system. Theon heard all sorts of things about adoptive parents who were worse than the actual parents. He didn’t need that so when he had to choose between sinking and swimming, he decided to stay afloat for as long as possible.

  
Five more miles and he arrived at Dreadfort. Horrible little town, dark, old houses and wild woods. Crooked trees and crooked people. Theon could taste their despair, their madness. He was glad he lived near the ocean and having a little repairing shop kept him away from people who gossiped as much as those from the plains.

  
He parked in front of the deserted shop with a decrepit firm placed ungraciously above the door. There was no WELCOME sign because he was sure that would be the irony of the century. The Bolton’s weren’t fond of humor. They were fond of flesh, of blood and bones. They seemed to love that very much because the family business was still standing.

  
He usually didn’t have to see Ramsay whenever he had business around the place. The Boltons traded with the other shops and supermarkets, made lots of money from the meat industry but they seemed unable to let go of this one shop, and Catelyn, being the conservative wife that she was, insisted on buying straight from the butcher’s. Out of respect, Theon followed her instructions.

  
He opened the door hoping to see one of the butcher’s men, Skinner or Damon, but today he was unlucky enough and his eyes landed on Ramsay Snow, Bolton’s bastard son. He was eviscerating something, looking focused and terrifying in his white tank-top and the thick leather apron around his waist. There was no way to announce his presence so Theon settled for waiting, his eyes darting nervously from side to side.

  
The place was big enough but deserted. Clean but cold. A killer’s den. “Fresh meat”- that had to mean something and Theon decided on the spot to become a vegan. There was no radio, no TV, only the sound of the meat cleaver and the knife at work, from time to time the saw and the constant, maddening buzzing of the coolers. Ice and blood. His eyes were ice as he turned unaware of Theon’s presence with the knives still in his hand.  
He looked annoyed.

  
Hell… Ramsay Snow always looked annoyed. Pissed. Upset. Mad. Crazy. A lunatic. Ramsay the butcher. Very suggestive nickname.

  
Theon didn’t know what to do so he just smiled, uneasily.

  
Really, Theon… you can do better. Better, as in run as fast as you can as far as you can. Two knives? Who the hell needs to have two knives and an electric meat cutter and a saw and all those stainless steel medieval looking instruments?

  
Ramsay, for sure.

  
His eyes were hypnotic. Cold, pale and ghostly. They looked drowned. Too bloody intense for Theon’s liking. And who taught the bastard to stare at people like that? Ramsay looked into his very soul.

  
There was a long stretch of silence between them. Ramsay cleaning his knives with a focused, confident look in his eyes and Theon shifting from one leg to another.

  
_Hell, I really need to pee. And why now? My cursed bladder…_

  
Ramsay stared blatantly at him, evaluating him from head to toe.

  
“Erm… hello…” Theon managed to say, voice croaky and meek.

  
_Nice try, Theon, nice try… show him you don’t fear this._

  
Of course, his body language chose to do otherwise.

  
_Stupid Theon_ , he chastised himself mentally. He was aware that he started to break into a cold sweat. How horrible. How ridiculous. And he was freezing. Freezing and sweating. And Ramsay kept looking at him with those cold, empty eyes, the knives neatly placed into their support, the hands uncannily clean.

  
Oh… the gloves. Yes, the gloves were bloody and sticky with viscera, blood and occasional shards of bone. Veganism it is then, thought Theon.

  
He approached the counter when he realised there weren’t any more sharp instruments near it and placing the wallet and his phone on the white marble surface he finally gathered his wits and spoke.

  
“Erm… I would like some meat for a barbeque… for like… erm… 10 people.”

  
_Shit, Theon, you crack under pressure just like an eggshell. Stupid, stupid Theon._

  
Ramsay continued to look at him strangely before his pale lips moved, almost inaudibly thanks to the rapid heartbeat that boomed in Theon’s ears.

  
“I haven’t seen you in a while…”

  
His voice was smooth, like a blade gliding through skin, reaching flesh and then bumping into bone. His voice wasn’t that awful, but his whole face was. Starting with those pale orbs, the fleshy face, so typical of the northerners of Dreadfort, the lips, moving like worms, formless, not plush and soft like a Sansa’s, but different, just like a translucent cartilage on a strange fish from the abyss. He reminded Theon of a pale monkey, his body, a stocky mass of muscles and perfectly white skin, like it has never been touched by the sun.

  
The harsh neon light hurt his eyes. Theon swore he was going to cry, a perfectly normal biological response to the crisp cold and sharp lights.

  
So uncomfortable. He could feel tears, and reddened eyes forming. He couldn’t face him so he dejectedly settled to sit hunched and look anywhere else but at at the forthcoming figure of Ramsay the Butcher. But what really made him dizzy was the smell, clinical and animalistic at the same time.

  
“Oh, the same as last year,” Ramsay answered in his place as if remembering something and his voice was velvet hiding a dagger. “You came just in time. Today I have something special, you should see.”  
Theon was petrified. He dared to look in the direction of the voice, only to find Ramsay behind him, hand moving towards his shoulder, steering him in the right direction.

  
The room behind the white metal door was cold, colder than he ever imagined. The freezers looked surreal and so very gruesome; Theon could swear he’s seen an identical image in the horror movie that Bran lent him.  
Animal carcasses were hanging from silvery hooks, huge, perfectly cut bones and heads covered with a skinny film of ice. He stops to stare at what were once cattle and which now appeared to have become a transversally sectioned mass of skin, meat and bone. He can count the vertebrae, he reckons through a shudder.

  
He almost forgets Ramsay as he disappears into the misty cold. A terrible screech attacks his ears. There was another metal door, white and seemingly covered in ice.

  
“Come, come now,” he motions. Theon was perplexed for a second and almost lost his sense of direction but Ramsay’s voice became softer, drawing him towards the door.

  
“Hurry up!”

  
He didn’t like what he saw but Ramsay was smiling proudly to no-one in particular. It reminded to Theon of those boys with strange hobbies such as taxidermy which later proved to be a sign of their own disturbed minds.  
But that was norman Bates from Psycho and this was Ramsay Bolton (Snow to some circles) of Dreadfort, the man who butchered their animals and sold them meat. The finest, they said. What if he’s going to show Theon a human, gruesomely sectioned? Theon frowned, trying to focus on his feet.

  
“She was a sweet and slender pig.” He giggled.

  
In the starkness of the neon crashing on metal, glaring its hard light at Theon, Ramsay giggled as they watched the blood pooling down in a chrome basin. He fucking giggled. Theon’s bile rose up, up in his throat.

  
Ramsay’s butchering was a work of art, if you thought gore was… errmm… nice. Grotesquely beautiful. His mouth moved earnestly in that hissing tone that both mesmerized and subdued Theon. He couldn’t pay attention, though, because soon, soon he was going to be so sick.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... in which Ramsay's presence wounds Theon up even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far! It seems like it's going to be a slow-paced story.

He didn’t throw up - fortunately, didn’t - but he lost his balance only to hit one of the half-full basins of blood as he tried to grasp onto something. He trembled all over, to the marrow of his bones.

Lying in a pool of cold blood, red and viscous, Theon could barely mask his discomfort. He was glad he didn’t eat much that morning, too busy with the Starks and their priorities, plus he tried to catch on his reading on Nautical Engineering in the hope that one day he’ll get his degree, a dream that never seemed to come true, though, seeing as Theon was always too busy trying to make ends meet. Of course, his life demanded a few compromises. Stay neutral to the rest of the Greyjoys (with the exception of Asha ) and be nice to the Starks, Jon Snow included.

He felt weak as he tried to get up but slipped again on the slick blood. When he looked up, Ramsay was watching him, scrutinising every small movement. Futile, he thought, struggling was pointless. He gave up and just looked back at Ramsay whose lips pursed creating an indescribable expression on his hard, marble-like face.

He realised he was so absorbed in his own confused thoughts, that he noticed only too late the approaching hand. He switched his gaze on the square, pale fingers instead. His veins were purple-blue under the skin. Theon couldn’t look away from that wrist. He knew he had to take the offered hand and stand up but instead, well… he did the stupidest thing. He simply ghosted his fingers, still sodden with that disgusting blood over that wrist in fascination.

_Is this real?_

Ramsay must think him ridiculous.

That’s why he couldn’t look up, couldn’t move, and couldn’t even look away as the muscle and the sinew stretched again under his eyes, closer, closer still. That ragged breathing wasn’t his, of that he was pretty sure when the ringing in his ears subsided.

Theon felt the cold on his back, seeping into his thin plaid trousers. He could feel it imprint into the fabric. So sticky. And then he looked and saw his mouth, his lips and sharp teeth, so white, so fucking white and shiny. _He’s got cat teeth_ , he thought… and they were worrying those rubbery lips of his. That mouth, made for shouting, made for biting and rending apart flesh. The hairs on his hand stood to an end, a weak, thin trail. Electric.

And then, thoughtlessly, he grasped that hand, clutched to that wrist until he managed to pull himself up and into Ramsay’s chest, his red fingers slapping hard muscle, white shoulders, and rough fabric.

“I am sorry I slipped,” he mumbled, fear rising in his chest entwined with the sick anticipation of Ramsay’s angry growl and a shove that would leave him breathless forever. But the yelling and the shoving never came. Ramsay was stone-still and Theon carelessly exhaled too close to his neck, too close to his pulse. Ragged, fighting for control that breath was, as he stood still with Theon clutched to his upper body like some spineless waif.

For the slightest of seconds he felt a deep shudder run through his bones. The hail of terror.

“I-I am really sorry… I-I’ll pay for the damages,” he continued, somehow expecting Ramsay to say something, not knowing how to handle that terrifying stretch of silence.

Ramsay pushed him firmly but not harshly away and even though the distance wasn’t considerable, Theon was thankful for the space between them as he almost thought he’ll faint if he inhaled Ramsay’s metallic scent again.

“It’s nothing.”

_It’s nothing. Nothing, you’ve heard him._

“Huh?” He almost fell over again and this time, Ramsay’s strong hands were on his hips, steadying him.

Then, he finds those unfathomable pale orbs studying him intently again. Theon feels like the frog pinned to the dissection board, helpless, about to die. And all the blood seems to have gone from supplying his brain, his limbs, he’s so dizzy.

“You’re anaemic, that’s all.”

His voice is hollow just like his eyes.

Surprisingly, he gives him a towel to clean himself but doesn’t linger too much. Soon, the meat cutter’s electric whirr fills his ears and Theon wakes up as if from a deep sleep.

He left with a full bag and he was almost surprised that he made it to the Starks alive.

When he entered the Stark’s kitchen, Robb’s eyes turned to him, alarmed.

“What happened to you, you look like shit!” He doesn’t know whether to call his mother or manage Theon himself. He looks baffled, as if he doesn’t know what to make of the haggard look on Theon’s face, of his blood stained clothes. Their eyes meet and Theon feels Robb’s concern surge.

“It’s nothing, I’m just anaemic,” he mutters, voice indeed, very weak.

He meant it as a joke. The forced interaction with the Starks started taking a toll on Theon, despite the fact that he loved Robb more than anyone in the world.

His words are nonchalant, untraceable. “Here’s the meat for the barbeque.”

And Robb does nothing but stare because asking any more questions seems useless.

In the living room, Jon flips through a magazine, feet perched carefully on the small table in front of the TV. His hair is wilder than usual and Theon stops for a second as if deciding whether to give him a scare or leave him be. Jon, with his pretty, pouty face always reminded him of a lost puppy. Jon was a hypersensitive kid who turned into a vicious young man whose routine consisted mostly of things that allegedly improved his self-esteem, like team sports and sword-fighting or letting his hair grow into a bird’s nest. The worst, in Theon’s opinion, was that Jon thought it cool.

However, Jon Snow noticed his reflection on the television’s black screen and turned his head in curiosity. He was wearing those stupid Ray Ban eyeglasses of his, large and dorky.

Theon couldn’t help it when he said it.

“Hipster,” he muttered loud enough. Jon smirked, adjusting the glasses higher on his nose.

“How’s Ramsay doing? Did he show you his meat-cleaver?” Needless to say, Jon’s evil grin dies when he looks him up and down and realises that Theon’s got stains all over his beige T-shirt and pants. He never expected that.

“Is that blood?” Jon asks incredulously. “Or cranberry juice?”

Instead of saying something equally witty in reply, just to test Jon’s sensitive self-esteem, Theon ignores him and goes straight to his old room.

He doesn’t know that Robb’s been listening to their conversation from behind the door.

“What happened to him?” Jon fixes his brother with an innocent look.

“I don’t know. He just came home with a bag full of fucking barbeque meat. Also… I think that’s blood.”

Jon is impassive and petulantly turns back to his magazine but Robb huffs in reproach.

“You’ll have to help me with dad’s anniversary, Jon. Theon’s in no state whatsoever to come down.” He expressly omits to mention Catelyn, knowing very well it would hurt Jon who never met his mother. Jon hides his discomfort by rolling his eyes and making a fuss out of placing his magazine back on the table as if he’s doing Robb a big favour.

“Fine, but I get privileges,” he says naughtily.

“You’re my brother, Jon! And so is Theon.” Robb sometimes feels that he’s the only mature one. His tone is outraged.

“Half-brother,” Jon corrects him. “And Theon’s a Greyjoy, already has a family. I don’t know why he has to be here and why he still keeps his room.”

“You’re despicable.” Robb concedes and throws the thick cooking gloves at him. “I love you, though.”

And Jon smiles, because he knows Robb means it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon wants to stop, but cannot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Self-harm, so don't take it lightly. No sharp objects, just fingernails. Theon's one little fucked up thing.  
> It broke my heart to write this. Dermatillomania is more insidious than "typical" SH.  
> Also, show some love- it makes me happy and inspired.

Back in his room, Theon starts pacing. He’s already having a panic attack and he searches one more time for his possessions. He turns the pockets inside-out but there are only receipts and crumpled bills and a few coins.

_Where the fuck is his wallet and where the fuck is his bloody phone?_

He starts shaking and hyperventilating. Fuck! He tries steadying his breath and grounding himself by looking at how hard his fingers grasp the wooden desk. There’s “Theon” stencilled backwards on the shiny surface, his moment of rebellion when the Starks didn’t let him go see his parents on his first Christmas. If he could go back in time, he would thank them instead of throwing a bloody tantrum. His father didn’t even call him and nobody answered the phone. He heard later that his mother had another failed attempt and was considered as a psychiatric ward at the Westeros Asylum. When he glances in the mirror to his left he thinks he’s seen a ghost, that’s how pale he looks.

His eyes trace his reflection up and down and the bile that stayed contained an hour ago in the abattoir is now forcing its way out. It’s burning his throat and Theon can’t keep it down. He manages to stomp to the small bathroom and pours acid into the toilet. He can’t risk making a mess at the Starks.

Several minutes later he’s frozen to the spot, his right hand digging into his upper arm. The flesh is red and marred with bloody half-moons. On Theon’s face, there’s a look of deep concentration. He cannot see anything except the skin being torn apart, leaving an angry shade of red behind. He can’t stop. He can’t stop. He can’t stop, because all that matter is this moment, in between a welt and a rush of pain.

H doesn’t even notice when the door opens slightly, enough to let Robb’s head in.

“Can I come in?” and he does without further questioning, Jon Snow was following him, begrudgingly.

They enter anyway, Jon immediately grimacing at what Theon’s been doing. For a brief moment, Theon catches his eyes and he’s thinking _“Oh, not again”_.

For some reason, he knows Snow despises him, even more, when he sees Theon like this. _“Another intense session of self-harm, Greyjoy?”_ ; his fingernails are all bloody from the tearing. He wishes he could bite and tear the flesh away as well. That would teach Snow to keep his mouth shut.

“I feel sick,” he gives in response and turns away because he doesn’t want to see Snow’s face. He hates when he looks at Theon with those grey eyes of his, swarming with emotion, accusation, worry. Robb takes it better. Robb’s always helped him. Never judged him. But Snow… Snow cannot understand. If Robb is the face of compassion, Snow is the face of regret, the horrible aftertaste when he stops tearing the flesh and feels the sting, the burn, the possible infection.

“You should get changed,” Robb approaches. “Here, let me help you.” And Theon feels again like the same helpless child he was when he first came to the Starks. He flinches when Robb traces the angry red pelts on his skin. “Jon…” Robb gestures to his half-brother who rushes to the door.

 _I’ve hurt myself again._ Theon’s eyes are distant. He cannot look at his handiwork, though. He has to wait for a couple of days to heal.

It’s always been like that with Theon. Robb coming in, finding him catatonic and hurt, hesitating about announcing his parents, then looking at Theon’s ashamed face. _“They’ll send me away if you tell them. Nobody has to know.”_ And Robb understands. He nods and hugs him. And Theon’s so relieved, because this way he doesn’t get to see Robb’s sad eyes, his face struggling to keep an impassive tenure, his eyes struggling not to let tears fall.

_“Do you love me?”_

_“Of course I love you, silly. You’re my brother.”_

_“Forever and always?”_

_“Forever and always. Don’t do this again. Call for me and I’ll be there. I won’t let you do that again, I promise.”_

And it’s weird, because, after that, Theon started hiding even more. He does it sometimes unconsciously. Like when he got that one postcard from Asha. Robb wasn’t there and when he looked, his arms were bloody again. He didn’t need razors, he didn’t need knives. He had his own nails to dig into his flesh. It felt good, then it felt really, really bad. He couldn’t stop.

Jon comes in a hurry with the first aid, fresh towels and a bunch of clothes that Theon doesn’t recognise.

“Damn, Greyjoy, I’m sorry, ok? I… I was a…”

Snow’s face is utterly distressed. His hair lost that nice coif of his as his hands raked his scalp nervously. God, he’s so sensitive, sometimes. Theon can’t let him blame himself for this.

“A bastard? “ Theon chuckles because he knows Jon Snow means well, despite being the most annoying cunt, he loves him in his own, twisted way. He chuckles and it comes out forced and terribly lame.

Jon huffs, but there’s a soft smile on his lips. Somehow, that crazy little laugh saddens him even more. He worries his bottom lip even more and he kneels next to Theon. He’s been guilt-tripped again, little brother Snow.

“You’re forgiven, Snow. What would I do without you? Without Robb…?”

“Don’t do this again, Theon.” It’s Snow that mutters.

Oh, right. Snow’s disgusted. Like that one time when Theon came home boozed up and smelling of cigarette smoke and pot. _“Don’t do this to yourself, Greyjoy…”_

Righteous little cunt.

“I promise I won’t. Cross my heart and hope to die.” Theon’s eyes are jocular and Robb glowers at him, his face a mask of severity.

Theon really hopes sometimes that he’ll die… every time he breaks his vow to Jon. How stupid Snow can be sometimes! Every time he makes him promise to stupid little things. _Promise you won’t smoke, promise you won’t drink, promise you won't shoot heroin, promise you won’t have unprotected sex, promise you won’t ever come home with one of those girls- dad will be upset._

Every time he breaks it, he knows he’s made a little crack in Jon Snow’s heart. He never goes unpunished. Robb never makes him promise anything. Robb’s eyes are the same.

He never cries and never pities. Unlike little boy Snow. And his arms are rough and strong when he pulls Theon from the floor, while Snow is afraid to even clean his wounds, always so delicate and stopping from time to time to ask in a tiny voice _“Does it hurt?”_. Theon wants Robb’s fists, wants Robb’s legs to kick and his teeth to bite. He also wants Snow to kick him and pull him by the hair. He wants them… but Robb never gives it to him and Jon… Jon looks at him with that destroyed heart of his. And that’s the worst.

Robb’s not there to punish him the way he wants, the way he needs. Robb’s punishment is full of self-righteousness and silent. Robb’s heart has never been made to be cracked by Theon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay has to make the pain go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies! Oh my... oh... my... Seven Hells! I did what I had to do. I feel really depleted right now. I just had to do this. Thank you for your support and your comments, it helped me going through this chapter... oh... I feel so terrible!  
> Also, this might come across as very inconsistent- but trust me, it was painful to write and see things from Ramsay's POV.  
> Also... this is Roose/ Ramsay...  
> Seven Hells!

What is this sensation travelling so fast within him, surging through his brain, making his hands tremble? Ramsay holds his breath for a while… 30 seconds… 34… 37… 41… 49… 52 seconds. No more. It’s not gone. The feeling is there. Or is it? Is it a feeling, now?

No, he’s just breathing hard.

There are these little bumps on his skin, signs of cold. Since when does he feel the cold?

No, he cannot, he cannot, because… there… it’s not supposed to bother him anymore. So he waits, he waits for the shiver to subside, for the uncontrollable contractions in his chest to calm down. His eye twitches. No, that’s not good.

That’s not good.

He feels eyes on him but there’s no one, not to his left, not to his right. He’s gone.

He’s gone.

_“Take it. It’s on me.”_

_“N-no… I couldn’t. It’s  too much.”_

_“You need it. I insist.”_

_“T-thanks… I’m sorry for earlier.”_

_“It’s nothing. Not your fault.”_

Father’s going to be so mad. Father is not going to take it very well.

Father doesn’t have to know.

But what if he finds out?

He doesn’t have to know. Unless… Unless you’re a stupid boy.

 

He shouldn’t have handed that bag to him. He’s a stranger. No, he comes here several times a year. Even so, he’s still a stranger. No… no, he… he said hello.

He said hello.

_“Erm… Hello…”_

He was polite, he really was. He was so nice. And when he fell, he looked really, really beautiful. With all that blood, so beautiful, so beautiful.

So red.

“He is beautiful.” He talks to the fridge as if his reply is going to quiet the appliance down, make the noise bearable again.

Ramsay’s hands jerk involuntarily, his muscles warming. The freezers are annoying today, they buzz infrequently, at the wrong time.

There’s buzzing and ringing and buzzing and ringing and the noise just won’t stop. Ramsay’s head feels like a balloon being hammered repeatedly. His migraine got worse, somehow.

Something rings and vibrates softly next to the counter and he's standing up at once, alerted by the strange noise. He doesn’t recognise it at first then it all comes back.

This is Theon Greyjoy’s stuff. Vibrating on the marble counter is his phone. Ramsay looks at it not knowing whether to throw it or crush it. The noise drives him mad. His head feels split in two from the pain.

On his left, snuck in the shadow is his cash. Theon Greyjoy’s cash.

He has to give that back. Or should he?

Should I?

The wallet is made out of black leather. He thinks it’s common at first, but when he turns it around and notices the initials TG, he realises it’s one of a kind. So smooth, so fine. Is his skin like this?

It’s better.

 It smells of cold leather and warm tobacco and money and plastic. Ramsay’s nostrils flare as he sniffs, trying to take in more and more information about the scent.

He likes it. He really does, because it’s so strange and foreign to his lungs.  Theon’s face smiles at him from the laminated ID and Ramsay wants to smile back, because he’s so handsome and popular and interesting. He’s beautiful. So beautiful, so nice… his head feels glued back together. There’s just a dull reminder of the pain.

That’s why he likes him. He makes the pain go away.

The phone vibrates again.

 It’s a black and slim thing in a nice leather case. He slides and a picture of the sea appears. He’s a bit surprised at that, judging by how Theon Greyjoy’s impression lasted in his mind. He expected at least a photo of one of his conquests surrounding his pretty face. He’s almost relieved. At first, he doesn’t want to look into the message folder or into the gallery. His heart beats pretty fast and Ramsay decides that he should check it anyway.

“You’ve got a new message”, appears on the dark screen in bold letters

It’s then that he notices that the INBOX folder is full of new messages.

“Call this number if you found my phone.” 

“Whoever you are, call this number.”

Ramsay frowns. His face scrunches and contorts with the confusion of a child who doesn’t understand why he cannot have everything.

He puts the phone down several times but again, he finds himself forming the number. 5-5-9… 0… No. He puts it down in the fork. Again, he picks it. .. 5-5-9… 0-2-6… No. No. No.

Good. No… Not good.

He looks interesting in the picture. Theon Greyjoy. T-h-e-o-n. G-r-e-y-j-o-y.

Is this how they call him?  Is it Theon or simply Greyjoy? Or some fancy nickname?

He likes the way it forms on his lips: T-h-e-o-n. G-r-e-y-j-o-y.

He presses BACK, then BACK again. He doesn’t want to look. What if it’s disappointing? What if he doesn’t like Theon Greyjoy anymore?

He shuts the phone after memorising the number. For now, Ramsay Bolton doesn’t know what to do with this new information. The thought of Theon in the shop alone with him thrills him.

The heart beats like crazy in his chest. He feels its drumming in his ears. It fills him. It’s such a rush. It won’t be long before he’ll see him again, that’s for sure.

 “Boy, what are you doing?”

Roose Bolton has eyes of ice and the voice of a hissing snake. Ramsay hides the wallet and the phone in the drawer, pretending to be looking for something else. Roose is as pale and sturdy as his son, only better dressed. A block of ice in a pink shirt and grey trousers.

“I was… looking for some paper, father.”

“I told you not to call me that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir, I am sorry, sir.”

“Stop making that face, boy.”

Ramsay swallows in assent. His pale eyes look down at the toes of his ratty sneakers, so thoroughly cleaned that the denim faded from so much brushing with detergents. He is a picture of cleanliness, even smelling of disinfectant, except for the red blotches on his pale cheeks and neck.

His pale eyes look so empty whenever his eyes sting from too much chlorine. The skin around them is so red.

Ramsay wishes he were blind.

He looks about to cry but finally, doesn’t shed a tear.

By his father’s standards, Ramsay should grow up faster, work harder, respect his orders and never complain. Not yet a man, he’s not as tall and imposing as Roose, but undeniably, he is his son. The man inspects the shop with a perpetual frown all the time and then settles on looking Ramsay up and down derisively. With one finger he pushes into Ramsay’s side viciously.

It hurts. It burns. And all those memories come back.  He cannot back away.

It would be disrespectful to his father.

“I need you to take the boys for drinks tomorrow, distract them. Tomorrow you are to close the shop early. I don’t want questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gives Ramsay one more look before he turns to leave.

And is that a woman waiting by the car? Ramsay thought he’s seen her before. She looks so young she could be his age.

He shouldn’t be curious. That’s father’s business, not his.

He stays there, stuck to the spot, breathing heavily. The tremors are back. The pain is back. The night is on. The moon is too big, too bright.His head hurts.

His head splits again. There’s nothing like this kind of pain, the suffering of being torn apart. Nothing, except that one time. Father said to keep silent.

_“Now hush, boy, hush! Don’t say a word.”_

It chokes him. Father always pushes too hard and chokes him.

_“Now you have your daddy, boy!”_

When his father’s car is gone, Ramsay can finally open the drawer and retrieve Theon’s objects.

He breathes in… then out…

The room is a sad little place, unexceptional and grey, with a single-mattress bed, shabby cupboard, desk, one chair and a mediocre library. He doesn’t really fit in the small place but Roose insists that he should stay there, above the shop.

He goes straight into the shower and immediately starts rubbing with a rough cloth at his ribs, where Roose’s finger speared a fresh bruise. Ramsay is so focused on the task at hand that he doesn’t care that the water runs ice-cold.

_“Don’t you dare move until I’m finished with you, boy.”_

He rubs harder. The words fade away. His head welcomes them in and then glues back together.

He’s so filthy on the inside that no matter the amount of rubbing at his skin is going to cleanse that.

He drowns his clothes in the bathtub and pours half a pint of liquid detergent. He can’t touch them otherwise, he can’t. He won’t stop scrubbing until he feels fire stinging that patch of skin. It’s all that he can do not to let the thoughts in. Those crazy thoughts where Ramsay isn’t Ramsay.

He hates it when Ramsay is just  _boy_.  When he is like this, he is weak and shameful and so easy to hurt. He always angers father. Father always likes it better when his Boy screams and cries and begs him to stop. Father finishes faster that way.

 Boy’s a freak. But Ramsay's not.

_“You like it, you like it, you freak.”_

_“No, father, no! Please, stop!”_

This is why, whenever Boy comes out, Ramsay’s skin itches, there’s fire everywhere and he has to rub… to make it go away.

“Not _Boy_ , I’m not _Boy_.”

He has to make it stop. He has to; otherwise, he’ll crack his head again on the wall. The way he did that other time.

And father… this time father will have to use the belt.

What does he do with the belt?

Father likes to tie him up. Father likes to make it go "swish" on Ramsay's back. No, not Ramsay... Boy.

No, no belts. He doesn’t want father to tie him with the belt. It always hurts whenever father asks him to keep still. The belt bites into his wrists and then father stills as well. Father hurts him there.

_“You’re gaping open, Boy! There… you look just like your mother. She never stopped screaming when I fucked her.”_

 He never stops until everything is wet and sticky and Ramsay’s shame is muffled in the sheets.

They’re always Ramsay’s sheets.

Maybe they belong to Boy? Definitely.

 Ramsay is clean, Ramsay scrubs and Ramsay listens.

The fridge makes “ _hurrr_ ”. The water makes “ _splash_ ”. The bone makes “ _crunch_ ”. And the father says _“Stay in your bed, Boy.”_

Father grunts a noise that sits in between a fridge and a neon buzz.

And Ramsay is a filthy boy who likes it. Father’s pleased, then. He makes Boy clean it up. Lick everything with his tongue.

It’s bitter and soiled.

And Ramsay has to be _Boy_ , he has to. Do you understand?

Except now, he can’t be _Boy_. It’s too much. Too sordid to be in his skin. He cannot breathe.

“T-h-e-o-n G-r-e-y-j-o-y.”

That’s it, his name sounds so beautiful to Ramsay’s ears. He has to say it again. He pulls the ID from its place again and memorises the face, that smile, those mirthful eyes. For a moment, he’s got the impression Theon is looking straight at him.

He’s going to look for Theon Greyjoy. That’s when the pain stops.

This is not his room. This belongs to Boy.

_…5-5-9… 0-2-6… 3-5-0…_

He presses CALL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's PTSD, lots of mentions of sexual abuse, incest, mental instability, signs of dissociation and split-personality.
> 
> This is me right now ;-; B-b-b-but whhhy?
> 
> So... yeah... The words are stuck in my throat. Please ask away and I'll give it my best to enlighten you if there's any confusion.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon does what he knows best, he pretends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theon resorts to his pervy self again; to Robb's outrage and Jon's dismay, he remembers a lot of things. Okay, I admit! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I don't proofread, so if something's out of place, please tell me!  
> Hints of Robb/Jeyne in this one!

Ned and Catelyn liked "the not so surprising surprise" a lot. They showered their progeny with praises and even opened a bottle of champagne. Despite the fact that Robb's choice of music made the dogs howl incessantly and the burnt vegetables gained Jon several nasty looks from Catelyn, everything went perfectly. In Theon’s opinion, it was a huge hit, meant to grant more freedom to Bran, Rickon and Arya who wouldn’t stop about a "very cool" guy named Gendry. Sansa grew quiet as everyone knew exactly how much she wanted a new boyfriend, after the horrible breakup with Joffrey Baratheon. Taking into account the latter’s homicidal behaviour and psychopathic tendencies, it was a wonder they lasted that long.

Jon… well… Jon could have died a virgin for all that he cared. Robb was always quiet about these things, ambiguous, almost, and steered the conversation pretty quickly to more pressing matters such as his studies. Catelyn could not have been more proud of her golden boy.

The washing of dishes was always a task over which they could talk about other things, and Theon needed to use that as an opportunity to steer clear of the subject of his earlier breakdown. He was wearing a three-quarter sleeve shirt under which the scars, some faded, some quite visible, were creating a pattern of their own on his skin. That was shameful enough on a hot day like this.

Robb never said a word of his own, just listened indiscriminately as he proceeded to wash the plates.

“… as I told you last week, she’s such a slut in bed! She sucked me off then wanted it in her butt, roughly. Afterwards, she brought her sister and ate her out in front of me. I fucked her too, she was soaking wet… ”

Robb almost dropped a plate. Almost. Theon just smirked knowingly.

“What?” his tone was outraged.

“Never mind, man… You were spacing out.”

“No… I wasn’t,” Robb said defensively.

“Yes you were. I was talking about yachts Robb, mother-fucking-yachts. Then… your dick went from limp to hard… so who is she? Just admit it.”

Robb pretends he didn’t hear him at all this time.

“Robb, who is she?”

“You don’t know her,” he snapped; “She’s not from around here.” Theon cocked his eyebrow unconvinced.

“Her name’s Jeyne Westerling. We’ve been seeing each other for a month now. I just didn’t want anyone to know until we figured it out. I’m sorry, all right?” He looked like he felt really guilty. He was pretty serious. Robb turned his back on him and resumed rinsing the plates.

“Unbelievable,” says Theon with irrevocability and mocking resentment. “You fucked her and didn’t tell me? Me!? Your brother and best friend? I told you everything! I bet she’s such a slut in bed…”

It took Robb several deep breaths and a lot of concentration not to slap Theon. “Jeyne’s not a slut, she wants to meet my parents.”

"Still a slut." 

"I love her, she loves me, you wouldn't understand."

Theon felt slightly insulted.

“Slut or no slut, they all go mad when they see your big, hard cock. Did she suck you off?” Theon waits for an answer that never comes and continues “Don’t tell me she doesn’t want to blow you until she knows you’ll take her to meet mum and dad… It’s just a formality to ensure that your dick doesn’t run away. I’d fuck her until the very thought gets out of her mind.”

“Pffft… Yeah, sure. I’d say it’s the only thing you know to do with them. You've never fallen in love, never had a date, never brought a girl to meet us, you just incessantly give me sleazy details! I don’t want to know about your very satisfying sex-life! Too much information!”

Theon’s smirk dies, morphing into a bitter look, because Robb speaks as if he really believes what he says and it’s enough to make Theon doubt himself. His opinion matters.

“Yeah? Then why didn’t you stop me, huh? Why, because it grossed you out? Ruined some impossible fantasy you had about women and girls? Or was your dick getting too hard, so whenever I left you alone you’d start to fuck your greasy hand like there was no tomorrow?”

Robb’s cheeks were so red, that Theon could swear they radiated heat.

“I’ve seen you, not once, but five fucking times… “

“Yeah, Greyjoy… I’m sorry for not taking the time to explain to you what privacy means,” Robb was too ashamed to be callous with Theon in that moment, and all that was left of his attempted outburst was a quiet indignation. He’s been caught, it was true. More than several times, even.

“I’ve been too busy freaking out about your night-terrors and your bruised arms to actually lock the door and have a nice one in my bed.”

“It wasn’t in your bed, dude…” Theon did play dirty when he meant to embarrass Robb further and deter the attention from his darker days. “It was in front of the mirror, in front of the window… Sheesh… with your mother’s panties around your cock… I was vanilla compared to you.”

Robb’s eyes darken as he sees Bran approaching with a tray of glasses to place in the sink, and grabs Theon’s hand harshly. It bruises. It cuts off the blood, that’s how tight it feels.

There weren’t any panties, especially something that belonged to Catelyn. That went too far, Theon had to come clean about it.

“Keep your voice down, or I’ll gut you with the butter knife, Greyjoy.”

He said it like he meant it. Theon’s satisfaction grows subtly as he got what he wanted from Robb, nails digging hard into his wrist, a grip as strong as iron, punishing, controlling, giving him sweet pain. He can already feel the rush; _oh, it feels so good_.

“I think I might like that.”

This time it’s Robb who’s genuinely disgusted and it burns Theon’s insides. _Oh, he’s angry, he’s angry…_ He pushes further, like he always does, always wanting to prove him wrong, always wanting Robb to admit that he’s made a big mistake by helping and hiding his sickness from the rest of the Starks. He wants to make Robb angry enough so he can feel his care attention going beyond ordinary. He wants Robb crushing him, hitting him hard, he wants to prove he’s no good. That he was damaged goods when they took him in. It’s his way of coping.

“I say you shouldn’t,” Robb grunts decisively, pinning Theon’s with his eyes. He’s so tall, he could break him easily.

“Then make me.”

He needs to know that Robb cares enough to want to kill him, he really needs that, because it would be the best thing someone has ever done for him.

Robb has to get over his faked disgust. Deep down, he knows Robb’s afraid for him and that makes Theon uneasy. He wants Robb to be strong for him, not afraid.

They’re all silent as Robb drives him to his place. Theon’s had three beers only in the kitchen while hiding from the Starks and now is so smashed he can’t walk straight, let alone drive. Jon hides him from his father’s prying eyes and doesn’t ask further questions, as usual. He just stays with him, on the back seat, holding his head in his lap. He’ll never admit that he smoothed his hair and patted his back comfortingly. It’s not something he does too often. Theon clutches at his knees, a sort of twisted embrace masked by trying to adjust his position. Jon gingerly threads his hands through his hair. He’s never been caught masturbating by Theon, he made sure he wouldn’t, but his shame lies deeper than Robb’s. He’s always felt inadequate because he’s done worse than Robb.

Theon mumbles wetly in his lap, a sinister smile growing on his face and Jon dreads what it’s about to come out of his ugly, contemptuous mouth.

“Remember that time when we were watching porn… and…”

Jon clutches at Theon’s mouth, his fingers desperate and harsh in their frenzy.

“Greyjoy, shut up,” he hisses angrily. He hopes that Robb didn't hear them.

Theon tries to wrench his hand away. The effort is futile and instead, he settles for making Jon uncomfortable. They gaze at each other for the rest of the road, until Jon’s eyes calm down and his fingers leave Theon’s face, resuming combing his head with his fingers. It’s unnerving because Jon feels more like a brother to him than ever.

It’s almost midnight when the phone rings, startling Theon from his sleep. The alcohol messed up with his head again. He’s all groggy and can’t bear to open his eyes. They seem glued and dry, so he fumbles all over the bed, between the sheets like a blind mole, guided only by the vibrating sound. It’s just his luck that the phone sits neatly on the nightstand and Theon, opens one eye and clutches the thing furiously.

Also with his right eye, he bothers reading the number on the screen and seeing it’s from his own phone, the one he thought he’d lost.

“Damn right,” he mutters unintelligibly, sliding his index over screen, all of a sudden woken up, both eyes wide, a strange shiver down his spine.

It takes a while before he finds his voice to speak. All he can hear on the other side is static, deep breathing, and shaky exhales.

“Hello?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say Jeyne “Only Gives Blow Jobs to People She Loves” Westerling made a very smart move.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an interlude of sorts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanation for this... really... I just finished writing it and now it's ready to be published. In case there are errors or unfinished sentences or something else... please point it out. I might check it after I get some sleep.  
> All I know is that I will update everything (including my "Given, not taken" fic) in a month or so, after I do my "actual work".  
> Thanks for being patient!

The streets were usually dimly lit at 2 AM, Theon noticed, as he got up from the bed. The lamp-posts threw eerie shadows on the street, already wet with sticky summer rain.

Somehow... he feels more upset by the fact that he had to get up and go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, than by the urgent call.

Of course it was... _him_. Just the thought made him fall slowly sick. Things have always gone against his own plans, or so Theon thought.

_Just my luck!_

The voice, he didn’t recognize at first. It was weak and subdued, too hesitant and it annoyed him to no end. He could think of nothing but those pale eyes measuring him and engulfing him whole. He couldn’t cope with thoughts of Ramsay Bolton in the middle of the night. His head felt as if hit with an anvil, the rest of his body - a mass of jelly. The voice was disconnected from the rest. He couldn't picture the rest of his face even though he tried very hard. Those eyes were still haunting him.

The conversation felt awkward and stagnant.

“I’ll give you my address. Just bring them back to me.”

“I already have your address.”

“Well… Ermm… How is that possible?”

“Your wallet. It has everything.”

What pulls at his nerves is the silence that melts in his eardrums. Ramsay's pauses leave room for dread to fill in the blank space created in Theon's imagination. For a brief moment, he wonders how should he feel knowing that a stranger had access to his life, to his contacts, to his personal information...

_I know where you sleep. And that’s enough for me._

It doesn’t help that outside the weather gets worse. It starts raining and thundering. It's uncommon for a summer day. Inside his room, though Theon feels hot and suffocated. He opens the window, slowly and breathes in the heavy, electrified air. The dust has risen into the atmosphere, engulfing everything in its earthy scent. Boredom and decay.

He yawns, he stretches. He wants back in bed.

_Who the hell would go out on a night like this?_

He goes back to sleep. It takes him easily, as if he waited for it all his life. He can’t remember the last time he witnessed thunder and lightning and was so nonplussed and unconcerned about it. Theon finds it’s surprisingly easy to find comfort in the noise.

It brings back a lot of memories that turn into dreams, lighter than feathers. He dreams of the times he played with his brothers, he remembers his mother’s smile and his father. His toys, neatly arranged in the cupboard. Tomato soup. Then mother taking all those pills… and father… losing all control and starting to throw with things at the boys, at him, especially. He cried. He dreamed a lot about that.

The wetness of the tears travelling down his cheek… he can remember that as well.

And… _What was that shadow leaning over him?_ Theon couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming anymore.

The dent in his bed felt uncomfortable and the heavy silence left only his heartbeat reverberate on the pillow. It was strange, just like those nights when he struggled with a dream inside a dream, its vividness plaguing his imagination, numbing his bones, altering his perception.

The touch is fleeting and Theon can’t figure at first whether it is a dream or just reality. Just like his mother used to thread her fingers through his hair, comforting him at night, this feels good, precious. Then… the madness took her away and Theon was left alone in a cold bed, darkness surrounding him like a mysterious veil.

A short puff of hot air on his cheek, the weightless kiss coming from unseen lips and Theon goes back to sleep. It feels so warm… everything feels so warm.

He slips into his dream, comatose and unaware. The colors swirl and twist, the voices merge and fade, far away. The strange feeling that someone else is in his room, watching and analyzing him doesn’t leave until his brain decides to cut off any cruel reminder of his reality.

As the morning light creeps in through the blinds, Theon sluggishly opens his eyelids that seem glued together after an incessant struggle for awareness. Unfortunately, he feels numbness all over, something he came to accept in the past days. His struggle with daily life seems to have decided on the winner.Theon knows it’s not him as stress eats further away at his frayed nerves. Last night is muddled up in his brain, a foggy answer to an indiscernible question.

One of his arms is trapped under the pillow. It feels heavy, like stone. Slowly, his limbs come to life and Theon moves gingerly into a sitting position. Unconscious of self and unconcerned, he yawns and tried very hard to pull his head up without cracking his neck. The last time that happened, it was painful and disturbing and Theon couldn’t turn his head to the left for a couple of days, as if his bones became overnight unfitting pieces of an old puzzle.

He does so with grace and patience.

His heart should have stopped.

It could have happened, though… But Theon isn’t sure anymore. Right in front of him sits Ramsay, the butcher. His eyes are huge and pale and so attentive, reminding Theon of flashing cameras for a brief moment. He sits in a chair that shouldn’t be there, facing Theon, drinking in his image, avidly.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice breathy, weak, an impression belied only by the flash of white cat-like teeth. His lips are red and puffy, just like his icy eyes.

Theon doesn’t bother to ask what he’s doing in his room… hell! In his house. His hands scuttle for the first object that can save his life. It’s his digital clock, still plugged in, somewhere.

He tries to appear menacing and serious but his fingers are so weak that they can barely hold the object with accuracy. It slips away on the carpet, and starts to beep.

The whole situation feels horrific to Theon who is now slowly dismissing two life-saving options: fight or flight.

Just as his eyes collide with Ramsay once more, Theon has no choice but to freeze and hope for some deus ex-machina to make this go away.

He waits and waits and waits, slowly shivering, his brain wired all wrong for this situation, unable to cope with the stress of it.

There’s a dejected look in Ramsay’s eyes as he gets up from his seat and slowly walks towards the bed, towards Theon.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you... I just wanted to wait for you.”

Ramsay looks profusely convinced by the truth of his own words as they roll from his lips, which doesn’t put Theon at ease at all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes... it is short but fortunately I felt like I had to move with this one faster.  
> nanjcsy, my thanks go to you for reminding me about this fic! This whole month has been a rollercoaster for me and I have no idea how I managed to squeeze out this chapter.  
> feedback from readers will be much appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay says what he wants.

To Ramsay, he looks scared and tired, extremely haggard, he could add. There are dark circles under his eyes, his face looks sunk in, the skin sallow, not golden like it was when he first looked at it and discovered he was fascinated by its glow, by its perfection.

_He’s still beautiful._

Ramsay smiles. His mouth smiles but his eyes stay dead, like pools of ice in the wait of a suicidal diver.

He approaches intently the bed and he can see very well how the other is clutching at the injuries on his arm, the small, bloodied things spoiling the even image of his skin. He digs his fingers in. He fights pain with pain.

 _That must still hurt_ , Ramsay thinks.

He knows that pain. It worms in under the skin and festers there, like black lava, only colder, fuming on the surface. It’s always the painful reminders that last. He fidgets and for a moment, after a brusque movement on Theon’s part, he halts, sheepishly setting his eyes on the old, scrubbed to perfection sneakers.

 _That’s good_ , he thinks. _Just like a frightened animal._

So Ramsay waits and waits and waits.

It’s really an act of patience because sure, he knows what he’s in for. He extends his arm, eyes still downcast, waiting for a fleeting touch.

There it is… after a while… That’s the first sign of breaking him in. He has nice fingers, really long, slender ones _. Beautiful_ , he wants to whisper. _Just beautiful._

He’s like frightened prey, trembling slightly, mumbling vaguely. Speechless. Ramsay likes it, it’s far away from the usual cocky image that Theon Greyjoy adopts while with his false family. Once Ramsay gets a hold of that hand for good, he settles down on the bed. It creaks. It’s comfortable.

He locks his fingers with Theon’s. They are soft.

“What do you want from me?” Greyjoy asks and Ramsay bets his eyes shift from side to side, and that his eyelids twitch. He can feel the nervousness through his skin, like an outpouring. It’s cold, his skin, and tiny veins turn blue and violet and indigo. Like rivers on a map.

“Want? I don’t want anything from you,” he exhales after a while. “I want _you_.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

I appreciate all the feedback on this fic. I have big plans for it and I have wrote enough material but on a second reading I realized it wasn't what I envisioned.   
Bear with me and you'll be rewarded!  
SOON! xoxo


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